frowned. ‘How can you be sure? Couldn’t the plans be imitations too?’
‘That’s what I thought. That’s why I didn’t tell you until I could get an expert to look at them for me and confirm their authenticity. I scanned the plans and sent them to one of my professors in Melbourne.’
‘You what?’
‘Yes, wasn’t it fortunate he was available? He’s validated them as genuine. He’s excited too. I hope he can get up here and see the garden for himself. I didn’t say anything to the television producer, of course, but wouldn’t it be the most amazing story? To reveal this hidden masterpiece?’
She kept on and on and didn’t seem to realise that his enthusiasm had dwindled to zero. In fact he was furious.
‘No,’ he said.
She pulled up, stared at him, obviously shocked at his abrupt tone.
‘What do you mean “no”?’
‘There will be no visiting professors. Or any other experts. And certainly no television people.’
He felt as if he were under attack. And she—the woman he had grown to trust—was the one who’d punched a hole in the barricades to allow access to the invaders of his privacy. For so long this house had been his refuge and his haven. He would not tolerate people tramping around the place, investigating, reporting, no doubt expecting interaction from him. He wouldn’t allow it. He couldn’t allow it. How did Shelley not get that?
‘But, Declan, this is such a find. People will be so excited about this discovery. Personally, it’s so important to me, important to my career.’
He kept hold of the papers. ‘These plans belong to me. You had no right to take them out of this house. To show them to other people. To invite so-called experts onto my property without my permission.’
He hated the way her face crumpled at the harshness of his words. ‘I didn’t realise. I honestly thought you’d be pleased,’ she said.
Her mouth twisted in a cynical way he hadn’t seen before and certainly didn’t like. ‘Your neighbours will be pleased. A heritage garden like this will add value to the street.’
‘I don’t give a damn about my neighbours. You should know that by now.’
Her eyes flashed. ‘What do you give a damn about, Declan? Certainly not me. You won’t even consider what this could mean to my career.’
‘Give me the rest of the papers,’ he said, reaching out for the envelope. Reluctantly, she handed them to him.
One part of him wanted to climb down. To compromise. To say she could be recognised as having discovered the lost garden. To possibly invite her professor for a private visit just the one time.
But that would be opening the floodgates. And he wasn’t ready for that. Not by a long shot.
‘Don’t discuss this with me again,’ he said over his shoulder as he strode back to the house.
* * *
Still shaking from Declan’s abrupt change of mood, Shelley walked around the garden to calm herself down, to let the tranquillity of this beautiful place soothe her and work the kind of magic only nature could.
He was right; she’d overstepped the mark. How could she have let her enthusiasm for her discovery override her caution in dealing with Declan?
When it came to emerging from the shadows of his isolation she’d decided he needed to walk before he could run. So she’d darn well dug in the spurs and tried to force him to gallop.
He was still too damaged to face public scrutiny of any kind—especially on his own turf. Why hadn’t she seen how far from ready he was to let down his guard and face the world? Instead she had just gone blundering in there, as was her way.
She sighed out loud, knowing there was no one to hear her. Was Declan too much for her to manage?
Her walk around the garden brought her back to the fountain. She thought about how hopeless a project it had seemed at the beginning, all damaged and dirty, unable to fulfil its function as a garden ornament, let alone a working water feature. Even she had quailed at the difficulty of restoring it. Had considered just pulling it down and filling in the pond. But she’d persevered—helped, of course, by Declan’s generous budget—and look at it now.
Declan was still broken. But she was prepared to work with him. These last weeks she’d been given glimpses of the extraordinary man he had been—could be again. And beyond all reason she wanted him.
No matter how angry he was with her, she intended to hang around. It would take time, more time than she might have imagined. But she could postpone her trip to Europe. When this garden was complete, she could find another job in Sydney. Her old employer had said he would welcome her back. And then there was the television opportunity. Declan might be convinced to let her remain in the apartment. She would be there for him. For however long it took.
He was worth it.
Her gaze went automatically up to the top-storey window where he worked. She could text him now and ask him to come down to her again. So she could apologise. Explain. State her case. Let him know how much she cared.
But no.
She had her key that opened the door into the kitchen of his house. She would not give him a chance to think up excuses to put up his barriers against her again.
She would brave him in his house. Surprise him. Tell him exactly how she felt. Even if the thought terrified her.
SHELLEY’S HEART WAS pounding so hard she imagined Declan could hear it—even from two floors above her. She tiptoed down his hallway in stockinged feet, holding in one hand the metallic pumps she’d worn with her pink dress to the interview with the television producer.
She paused before the elevator, decided against it. Too uncertain. What if she got trapped in it? It would have to be the stairs.
Cautiously she made her way up the flight of marble stairs with its ornate iron balustrades, past the silent floor of doors closed on what she assumed were bedrooms and bathrooms. Sad, unlived-in rooms.
She paused at the next landing to look out of the lead-light window at the view of the garden laid out below. All the structures perfectly matched the plan. The design was classic Enid Wilson—how could she have ever doubted it? But her discovery would remain private—she had to respect Declan’s wishes on that. Much as she wanted—deserved—the recognition.
The top floor had another smaller flight of stairs she assumed led to the turret. The rest of the floor might have been servants’ quarters in the days when a grand house like this would have employed them.
Now dividing walls had been pulled down and it had been modernised into a sophisticated living space furnished in tones of grey and black leather. Declan’s domain. Beyond the living room was a door she could only assume was his office
